


and I am standing still

by meretricula



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 18:54:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meretricula/pseuds/meretricula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Novak?" Rafa repeated, struggling to find his English, which usually eluded him until at least after breakfast. He was not awake enough for this. "Why you call? Is - Novak, is three in the morning!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	and I am standing still

**Author's Note:**

> takes place after Novak beat Rafa in the Cincinnati semis in 2009; because Rafa lost that match, he remained at 3 in the ATP rankings, and he and Novak were guaranteed to be seeded in opposite halves of the draw at the US Open, unable to meet until the final. my gratitude as always to [](http://t-lyrical.livejournal.com/profile)[**t_lyrical**](http://t-lyrical.livejournal.com/), beta extraordinaire.

Rafa didn't even hear his phone ringing. He was tired, and he had an athlete's knack for getting rest no matter what was going on around him. The same could not be said of Xisca, who instead had a college student's knack for waking up instantly when her phone's alarm clock went off twenty minutes before class. It didn't make her happy about it, though, and Rafa could sleep through a lot of things, but getting kicked repeatedly in the shins wasn't one of them. "Stoppit, 'm sleeping," he mumbled in Mallorquin, swatting at the blinking, beeping thing she was shoving in his face.

"Rafa," she complained, and actually hit him in the forehead with it. "Rafa, _phone_."

He took the phone, if only so she would stop flailing around before she accidentally broke his nose with it or something. Given that he'd managed to pull a stomach muscle in his second match back, he didn't really want to push his luck on anything health-related. He fumbled the phone open. "What is it?" he asked, sleep slurring his Spanish into near incomprehensibility. If Toni had gotten the time difference wrong somehow and was calling _now_ to tell him what he'd done wrong in that match with Novak, he was going to...

Well, he wasn't going to do anything, really; he wasn't stupid or suicidal. He would probably think some very rude thoughts, though.

"Um, Rafa?"

That was not Toni. Rafa could recognize Toni's voice even when he was fast asleep, or ready to fall over from exhaustion after playing a five-hour tennis match, or, on one very memorable occasion with Carlos and Feli, absolutely blind falling-down drunk and singing ABBA at the top of his lungs. "Who is this?" Rafa groaned. All he wanted was a decent night's sleep before he had to get on a plane to New York. Why did the universe always insist on spitting on him lately?

"Hey, it's, uh, it's Novak." The words were incomprehensible for a moment, and then some switch flipped in Rafa's head, and he managed to translate them into Spanish.

"Novak?" Rafa repeated, struggling to find his English, which usually eluded him until at least after breakfast. He was not awake enough for this. "Why you call? Is - " He glanced over towards the clock on Xisca's bedside table. Xisca, he saw with a surge of helpless affection, had yanked her pillow over her face. She looked like that bird that buried its head in the sand. Then he was distracted by the numbers glowing at him in the semidarkness. "Novak, is three in the morning!"

"Yeah, I know, I just - "

"You play tomorrow! Why you no sleeping?"

"I can't," Novak snapped, a thin edge of something close to hysteria in his tone. Rafa's eyes widened. "I can't sleep, I don't - I know it's really late, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called."

"Nole," Rafa said carefully. "Is okay, no? Always you can call." Xisca made a very angry, muffled sound of disagreement from beneath her pillow. "I want to hear you always, no? Only you need rest for tomorrow. We talk until you sleep, okay?" He rolled out of the bed, ignoring another indignant yip from Xisca at the cold air he let in, and padded into the other room. "What's wrong?"

"I don't - nothing's wrong, you know, I just can't sleep," Novak said.

"Okay. Jelena, she sleeping now?"

"Yeah, she's, you know, she was tired. I think she's sleeping. She's in the other room."

"Okay," Rafa repeated, trying to keep his voice low and soothing. He wasn't really sure what was bothering Novak, but he'd either bring it up or he wouldn't. The best Rafa could do was try to calm him down. "You play very good today."

"You didn't," Novak said.

"For sure," Rafa agreed. "Is okay, no? I play better in New York, maybe. Gonna try."

"Why didn't you - I _hate_ when you - are you sure you're going to be okay?" Novak demanded.

Rafa frowned, trying to puzzle through his syntax. "I hope I gonna be okay, no? Is not - nobody say me, for sure you can play US Open, no problem, the knees gonna be fine. I play bad today, no? Is not the knees."

"I didn't ask about your knees, asshole, I asked if you were okay. You pulled out of doubles, okay, and I didn't ask, it's fine, but if you're not okay I want - I hate - you never tell me when something's wrong and _I hate it_."

"You talk too fast," Rafa complained. Novak let out an infuriated-sounding hiss, and he quickly added, "I don't know, no? I don't know. I hope. I pull something, in the stomach, no, is all. I hope is gonna be fine."

"In Montreal you pulled something? Why the fuck didn't you _pull out_?"

"I want to play," Rafa said flatly. "I gonna play, no, until I lose. I no gonna talk about no more, no? I gonna play."

"This is why you drive me _crazy_," Novak muttered, but he let Rafa ramble for a while about how excited he was for Davis Cup, and after a few minutes he forgot to be angry and started talking about the Serbian team. Then it was easy to talk about football, and their families, and the weird things you never thought you would miss about living with your bratty little siblings, and eventually Novak started yawning loud enough to hear over the phone.

"You can sleep now?" Rafa asked.

"Yeah, maybe." Novak yawned again, and sighed. "I'll try. Thanks."

"No problema," Rafa said, and hoped Novak could hear the affection in his voice even if he didn't have the English to express it. Novak was better at that kind of thing than he was, words and gestures and _knowing_, so maybe he could. "Good luck for tomorrow, no? I see you in New York."

"Be okay in New York," Novak said, with a sudden and unnerving fervency. "Please be okay, Rafa. I don't - I want to play you in the final."

"Okay," Rafa laughed. "I try, for sure. Go sleep now."

"Good night, Rafa," Novak said quietly. The _click_ of the call disconnecting followed too quickly for Rafa to reply.

He looked at the clock as he shuffled back into the bedroom, and winced; it was after four. Xisca stirred when he crawled into the bed, a little grumpily, but she gave back his fair share of the covers in the end. "What did he want?" she asked, still sleepy.

Rafa thought for a moment about their conversation, and what they had and hadn't said. "I think maybe to apologize," he said at last.

"That's stupid," Xisca pronounced. "He played better than you. That's his _job_. And tell him if he ever calls that late again, I'm throwing your phone out the window."

Rafa hummed in agreement, not particularly paying attention. He kept squirming around, trying to get comfortable; after a minute, Xisca put an arm around him to keep him still and pressed herself tight against his back, the way he liked to sleep best. They had done this the other way around when they were younger, and still trying to figure out how things worked: Rafa holding her while she slept and he stared restlessly at the ceiling. Things were better lately, now that they understood themselves a little more, and knew what they could and couldn't be for each other.

He thought of Novak again as he started to drift off, Xisca warm and solid behind him with her arm across his abdomen, holding him down and holding him in. He hoped he had told the truth, that everything would be okay and the ache in his stomach muscles would go away and the pain in his knees wouldn't come back. He made it a policy not to think more than one match ahead, but in the deep dark place inside him where he kept wishes, winning Wimbledon again and playing Roger many more times and someday being able to kiss Nole in public, all the things he wanted so badly he couldn't say them aloud -

He'd never played Novak in New York. Maybe it would be okay to want it, this time.


End file.
